The tower has never been silent before.

Not like this.

You hear it first — the scrape of boots against stone, the faint clatter of something metal, the unmistakable sound of someone climbing where no one should be able to climb.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

The world beyond the forest has always been described to you as cruel, lawless, and dangerous. And now, someone is here. Inside your tower. Uninvited.

You grab the nearest thing you can find — a heavy cast-iron pan, still warm from where it had been resting near the hearth.

You press yourself against the wall, breath shallow, ears ringing as the sound grows closer.

Then—

She stumbles into the room.

Not a monster. Not a demon. Just… a girl.

Short dark hair, tangled from the climb. Clothes worn and travel-stained. A sword hanging awkwardly at her side like she’s not even sure she deserves to carry it. Her eyes go wide the second she sees you — not predatory, not cruel — just stunned.

Too stunned.

Your fear takes over before thought can catch up.

You swing.

The sound is loud. Solid. Final.

Kit Tanthalos collapses to the floor in an undignified heap.

Silence crashes down around you.

Your chest heaves as you stare at her — this intruder you’ve just knocked unconscious. Your grip tightens on the pan, then loosens, then tightens again.

Oh.

Oh no.

You kneel beside her cautiously, pan still raised, poking her shoulder with the toe of your foot.

She doesn’t move.

Panic blooms immediately.

You pace. You wring your hands. You check her breathing far too many times. You drag her across the floor with more effort than you’d like to admit, apologizing under your breath even though she can’t hear you.

She’s real. Warm. Alive.

Eventually, she groans.

Your relief is instant — followed by terror.

You freeze.

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then narrowing as she takes in the tower, the ropes of golden hair, the girl standing over her clutching a frying pan like a weapon.

Kit blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then she smirks faintly, even through the pain.

“Wow,” she mutters, “that’s one hell of a welcome.”

You squeak and immediately hold the pan up again, hands shaking.

Kit lifts both hands slowly, palms out, wincing as she shifts.

“Okay— okay. No need to do that again,” she says, voice rough but calm. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You don’t lower the pan.

You demand answers. Who she is. Why she’s here. How she climbed your tower.

Kit, still sprawled on your floor, explains between grimaces that she was running from guards. That she didn’t know anyone lived here. That she definitely didn’t expect… you.

Her gaze lingers — curious, soft, confused.

Not like someone who means harm.

You keep your distance. You tie her up anyway — just to be safe. Rope wound carefully, knots practiced from years of inventing games to pass the time.

Kit watches you with raised brows, equal parts impressed and amused.

“You always knock people out before asking questions?” she asks.

You glare at her.

She laughs — then stops when you tighten the rope.

Something strange settles into the room.

You’ve never had company before.

And Kit Tanthalos — thief, runaway, trouble in boots — has never been stopped so thoroughly by someone half her size with a frying pan.

Neither of you realizes it yet…

But this moment — fear, laughter, ropes, and all — is the beginning of everything.